


Kiss me, it’ll heal, but it won’t forget

by sarcasticbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Masochism, M/M, Multi, Pain, Painplay, Polyamory, Psychopaths In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticbones/pseuds/sarcasticbones
Summary: I hate writing summaries. This is a story written for the Kink Bingo at Sterek & Co. It has a Derek x Stiles x Isaac tile,  and I thought: "oh, I have never done that, or even thought about it, lemme try." So I did, and it ran away from me and grew two more heads. Let me know what you think, comments are love :*“You’ll break it,” Stiles said, voice strained. The jeep. Not his bones.“It’ll be fine,” Isaac assured, but eased up a fraction, not enough for Stiles to escape, but enough for him to turn around. Then he pushed back, forearm bearing down on the windpipe.Stiles wheezed. Fuck, but Isaac loved that sound. Beautiful sound, bested only by the broken little sobs Stiles sometimes made. Rarely. As much as he talked, he was stingy with his noises. At least with Isaac. Made him work for each single one, wrest them out of him. Everything Isaac got from Stiles, he had to take by force.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Isaac Lahey/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Kiss me, it’ll heal, but it won’t forget

He was bored. There were too many metal surfaces in this room, and the little bit of moon visible in the sky was glinting off each and every one, distracting him. Plus, they had had this conversation a thousand times. What about Peter? What should be done with Peter? Why is Derek not doing anything about Peter? Which, frankly, wasn’t even true. Derek was doing something about Peter, he was keeping a very, very wary eye on him. Two when he could spare them. Isaac knew, he’d seen it. The tense shoulders, the furled brow. Watching Peter was shit work, but someone had to do it, and as always that someone was Derek, and as always, people mostly ignored it.  
“Ok, so imagine someone who claims they have always been the Alpha, but also like … wants to be your friend?” Scott said. He had one of his fingers up, like he was counting, although how he ended up at one, from always Alpha AND friend, Isaac had no idea.  
“And tries to date your mother,” Allison added. Scott wrinkled his nose and raised another finger. Allison smiled. They continued to be nauseating, more so now that they were “broken up.”  
“Let’s not forget poisoning everyone, brainwashing Lydia and sticking an iron pipe through Derek and not taking it out for half an hour.” Stiles was pacing back and forth, randomly touching what were, undoubtedly, Deaton’s meticulously placed supplies. Touching, touching, touching; smearing his scent over everything. Maddening creature.  
“They’d be locked up, because they’re insane,” Isaac drawled. Just because. He was bored. This conversation was boring. Boring, boring, boring. There were so many things he could be doing instead. Better things. So many. He could count them on his fingers and end up at more than a miscalculated two. His eyes lingered on the nape of Stiles’ neck.  
Provoked, easy as pie, Stiles whirled around and glared: “can you at least try to be helpful?”  
Isaac enjoyed angry Stiles, frustrated Stiles, provoked Stiles, irritated Stiles. Those were all very good flavors of Stiles. Fragrant. He flicked his nails out, slow and demonstrative - savored the hitch in Stiles’ breath and rolled his thickened scent on his tongue like a lemon drop – buffed the nails on his pants, then looked very deliberately into Stiles’ eyes and said: “for half my childhood, I was locked in a freezer. Being helpful is kind of a new thing for me.”  
Stiles blanched, then flushed. It was low, Isaac knew. Stiles was a bleeding heart, he hated poking at people’s scabs; worried, endlessly and eternally, about the pack’s traumas. But Stiles also knew Isaac. So, he gathered himself, tamped down his natural inclination to soothe, and sprung to his other natural inclination – to sass.  
“Really? We’re still milking that?”  
“Hey!” Scott scolded. He was trying on this new role now, of like … glue or … pack heart, or whatever. Peace maker, alliance keeper. A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. Allison beamed. Stiles huffed, but didn’t push. He never pushed when called out by Scott. Never. It was infuriating. He pushed, relentlessly, at every single boundary, each and every line drawn in the sand, every rule that anyone, or anything in the world presented him with, but Scott, Saint Scott, childhood buddy Scott? In Scott’s hands Stiles was putty. It annoyed Isaac like a bite on the inside of the cheek. Something that should be left alone, but was impossible not to poke, poke, poke at until it got worse. So, he took his frustrations out by pushing Stiles’ buttons more and more and more. More. They compulsively fanned each other’s flames, neither the better man, neither willing to walk away. In fact, the others had had to separate them on a couple of memorable occasions. Because Stiles was irresponsibly fearless and got s o a n g r y he used to forget that Isaac was a freaking werewolf and could literally eat him. Dismembering him would be a cakewalk. So, he had not once, not twice, but three times pushed all up on Isaac, fingers pointing, then curling into fists, sparking for a fight like a faulty wire. The first time Isaac simply pushed back. After, Stiles was cradling his elbow like it hurt a lot, and Isaac suspected bruises. Wished he didn’t carry that around with him like a colorful piece of beach glass, polished into a gem by the ocean. Scott yelled at him. Then Derek yelled at him. The other time, he had shoved Stiles against the wall. Unlike some recounts of the story, he did not throw him. But there was this crack when Stiles head hit and Derek didn’t just yell at Isaac, he roared. Stiles had just fumed from under angry brows, eyes dark slits, twin patches of pink high on his cheeks. That’s when Isaac first noticed that thing Stiles did. The hurts he hoarded. That thing they danced around. Something … something … pain … something. So, the third time … oh that third time was good. So good. Isaac sucked air through his teeth and failed to suppress a grin. What? Isaac had never, literally never ever claimed to be better than any of this. Or above anything. Nah, that shit was not for him. He had no interest in being better, no fascination with rising above. Freezer --> <\-- Childhood. Remember? He used his trauma to manipulate Stiles, yes, but the trauma was there, and once you’re fucked up, you can only become slightly less driven by your fuckedupedness, slightly less obviously fucked up, but you can’t ever become whole again. Which Stiles knew. He was never going to be whole again either. 

While Isaac had been daydreaming, the three musketeers had come up with another iteration of what passed for a plan these days.  
“Right, so is everyone clear on what they’re doing?” Scott asked from his self-appointed perch on the high horse.  
Allison nodded. Stiles nodded. He never fucking nodded when Isaac asked him to do  
a n y t h i n g. He also argued, harangued and poked holes in whatever Derek told him. Well … not whatever, he did sometimes listen to Derek. N e v e r to Isaac though.  
“The plan or like, life, in general?” he asked, drawing out every word, lingering on every syllable. Even Scott’s blood pressure raised at that. A yellow glint of annoyance in his eyes. But Stiles, primed from before, always with an ember of anger in the pit of his stomach, always, always after the Nogitsune, maybe before, maybe ever since his mom, yelled: “What is the point of him?” then rounded on Isaac: “what is the point of you?” and then, stepping half behind Scott: “I mean seriously, what is his purpose, aside from his negativity and the scarf. What's up with the scarf anyway? It's 65 degrees out.”

The scarf was off limits, and Stiles knew that. 

Thus, Isaac walked - calmly - out of the clinic with the others. Two of the five street lamps around the gravel lot were out. The sky was the kind of purple bruises turned on day four after a beating, the air heavy with impending rain. Isaac focused on the hammering in Stiles’ chest as he said goodbye to Allison and did the ridiculous, agonizingly long fist bump with Scott. Isaac walked, calmly, behind Stiles - the almost steady metronome of crunch … crunch … crunch … of their feet a meditative contrast to Stiles’ pulse. A-thunk-a-thunk-cruch. A-thunk-a-thunk-crunch. Until the pulse spiked, and Stiles’ control broke, and he started in on a frantic crunch-crunch-crunch across the lot. A delicious prey spurt towards the jeep. Isaac could have grabbed him, ankled him off his feet with one move, laid both of them flat on the gravel. He would have healed. Stiles would have bled. Instead, Isaac timed it. He slammed into Stiles just as he reached the jeep; a full collision of muscle to muscle, bone to metal. 

Time slowed for Isaac to catalogue all points of impact, sound, scent, pain. 

Knee. Knee. Chin. Sharp pain first, then dull ache. Bruise.  
Fingers in the handle. Something twisted the wrong way. Long, deep pain. Swelling.  
Chest. Breath knocked out for a moment. Bruise.  
Shoulder. Wrenching pain. Not dislocated, but only just. Swelling.

He knew this, because he could smell it, because he was skin on skin, his palm on the back of Stiles’ neck, flattening him into the fading blue of the car. He knew this, because he had spent months learning how Stiles hurt, figuring out how to sort his pains without taking any. They weren’t his to take.  
“You’ll break it,” Stiles said, voice strained. The jeep. Not his bones.  
“It’ll be fine,” Isaac assured, but eased up a fraction, not enough for Stiles to escape, but enough for him to turn around. Then he pushed back, forearm bearing down on the windpipe.  
Stiles wheezed. Fuck, but Isaac loved that sound. Beautiful sound, bested only by the broken little sobs Stiles sometimes made. Rarely. As much as he talked, he was stingy with his noises. At least with Isaac. Made him work for each single one, wrest them out of him. Everything Isaac got from Stiles, he had to take by force.  
Stiles was completely flushed now, his eyes syrup slow, the burnt sugar of his arousal mixing into the mouth pucker of his fear and pain. Isaac eased off his throat, heard and felt air whoosh in, then out and on his second full breath Stiles was complaining. Groaning out a frustrated: “no, more,” cut off at a mostly swallowed yelp, as Isaac ground out a: “shut up,” and kicked Stiles’ feet out from under him.  
A joint-shuddering thud. Gravel - meat - bone.  
A slowly unfurling scent of blood; weak, but climbing like a seedling. Isaac felt his fangs, blinked up at the luminous crescent in the sky to re-center himself.  
Definitely scraped knees. Torn jeans. Grit in the cuts.  
“Ow,” Stiles said, looking up at Isaac with bright eyes.  
He almost never said “ow.” It wasn’t as good as crying, but Isaac took it for what it was - a gift. An apology for the scarf. Not nearly enough, but a nice gesture nonetheless.  
He kicked Stiles knees further apart, relishing as Stiles complexion went from flushed, to pale, to completely scarlet with the sting of his bloodied knees scraping across gravel. Stiles wasn’t wearing his hoodie, just a thin white t-shirt, too loose around the collar. A single bead of sweat was nesting in the hollow of his throat, a quicksilver reflection of the night skies and the moon. A miniature model of the world. Everything. Everything. Isaac swallowed, gums aching. He yanked at his scarf and the fact that Stiles offered his wrists - pale, thin, beautiful - way too fragile for such big hands, only irritated him. He tied them as tight as the silk blend allowed.  
“Shut up,” he said again, unnecessarily, because Stiles hadn’t said anything and wasn’t going to. His eyes were too shiny and his breath too shallow, he was past saying things. And suddenly, Isaac wanted to punch him in the face. To split his perfect, soft lip open, let the blood smear down his chin, then lick it off. Sink his fangs into the muscle, where neck meets shoulder. A violent, animal urge, too sudden and powerful even for the two of them. It caught Isaac off guard, thrashed inside him, took so much effort to tamp down. Stiles blinked as if Isaac had said it out loud, as if the manic in him had a direct fucking line to the destructive in Isaac. Isaac saw him kicking his way to the surface, intent to ask for it, or worse, make Isaac give it. So, Isaac pressed the palm of his hand over Stiles’ mouth, pinched his nose shut, and whispered: “shut up.”  
One Mississippi.  
Two Mississippi.  
Three Mississippi.  
Stiles licked his palm.  
Five Mississippi.  
Six Mississippi.  
Seven Mississippi.  
Stiles rubbed his tied hands over Isaac’s erection. Pressing into the touch, Isaac vaguely registered that Stiles’ fingers looked purple. He caught them in his other hand, wriggling his fingertips into the stone hard knot, trying to loosen it. No nails, he would never risk ruining the scarf.  
Fifteen Mississippi.  
Stiles was protesting into his palm.  
“Shh, shut up, just loosening.”  
Twenty Mississippi.  
Finally, he managed to wriggle some slack into the knot. Blood was rushing past where his own finger was pressed against Stiles’ wrist.  
Twenty-seven Mississippi.  
Twenty-eight Mississippi.  
Twenty-nine Mississippi.  
Thirty Mississippi.  
The gasp was loud, ricocheting back from the empty windows, slamming into Isaac like a shock wave. Someone was snarling. It might have been him.  
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Isaac muttered, frantic now, out of his head, needy for noises, angry at Stiles for withholding them. He yanked Stiles’ arms up over his head and slammed them into the jeep, hard.  
Glitter of pain. Little sparkles, like fairydust – pop – pop of gold. Knuckle. Knuckle. Knuckle. Finger. He wasn’t sure it was going to be enough. That errant thought of a busted lip was haunting both of them, Isaac knew it. Instead, he tore at his fly. He wasn’t much of an exhibitionist, but this had slipped his control now. This thing they did. It slithered out of his grasp and grew three stories high.

A pop of the button, rasp of the zipper; then the blast of his own scent, the perverse joy of smearing precome over Stiles’ lips before he managed to open them. The primal pleasure of being able to tell Stiles to do something: “open,” and Stiles doing it, unthinkingly. Isaac fed his cock in slow. A steady, unrelenting push, first, into the plush, wet cavern that was Stiles’ mouth, then into the tight, hot noose of his throat. Stiles liked it that way, Isaac liked it that way. Sometimes though, Isaac thought of just shoving it in. But it felt like cheating. A self-aggrandizing move to really do the absolute maximum to make Stiles choke on his dick. And Isaac was not t h a t insecure thank you very much. He bottomed out, leaning in a little for good measure, pressing skin and pubes and muscle into Stiles’ face, restricting his air supply again. Part of him wanted to slip a palm behind Stiles’ head to protect it, but Stiles would never forgive him. But then Stiles’ throat constricted, an undulating squeeze, something Isaac imagined getting eaten by a snake might feel like and Isaac checked out. It was just lust, and wolf, and muscle memory now. Wet, dirty noises reverberated around them as Isaac fucked. In, in, in. More, more, more. He felt like pushing into Stiles, through Stiles, through his skull, through the goddamned jeep, and then … yes … finally! A wrecked gagging noise was wrenched from Stiles’ throat and Isaac was coming in face-numbing spurts somewhere deep, very close to the source of all meaning, very close to the core of the earth, or maybe just down Stiles’ throat. He barely managed to pull out enough to paint a single, thick stripe across the bridge of Stiles’ nose. 

A change in the air was the first thing that registered. A thinning. A cooling. It was already raining somewhere nearby. Not here, not on them, but a couple of blocks away. The skies were rumbling too. He felt the coolness on his neck first, then on his wet dick. Isaac let go of Stiles wrists to tuck himself in. Noticed, with satisfaction that Stiles was still out of it, still just winding his way back. His loosely tied wrists flopped into his lap and he didn’t move.  
“Hey,” Isaac said, tugging on Stiles’ chin: “it’s gonna rain.”  
Stiles blinked and nodded, his eyes lightening and clearing slowly. Only … just as Isaac took a step back to offer a hand the whiskey darkened to molasses again, the soft swollen lip curved up into a thin, one-sided smirk. Before Isaac could say, or do anything, Stiles raised his hands, corner of Isaac’s scarf held daintily between his fingers, and used it to wipe at the cum on his face. 

The crack of lightning overlaid the smack. 

It was beautiful. 

The wound didn’t open before Isaac’s hand was out of the way. And when it did, it was in slow motion. First a tiny bead of blood, then a string of carmine pearls forming only to immediately blend back into each other, cluster into a drop at the point of Stiles’ chin and fall to quickly splatter on the thigh of his jeans. So, Stiles got what he wanted. Well, Stiles and Isaac’s wolf. Their scents were all mixed now. Isaac’s cum, Stiles’ blood. Stiles’ cum. God, they were fucked up.

Isaac drove. He always drove after they did this. Werewolf … human, right? The radio was off, rain loud against the roof and the sky was so quickly changing colors it was like northern lights. Isaac had never seen northern lights with his own eyes. They kept talking about a road trip to the Panhandle National Forest, but it was always something.  
His skin was flickering. Hot - cold, prickling, smoothing out, prickling, smoothing out. The pressure in his gums was also still there. This was … unusual. He wiped knuckles over his lips. And Stiles was too quiet. Weird quiet. Not the passed-out kind, where his breathing evened and his heartbeat settled. No, this was a different quiet, deep breaths, but too far apart, heartbeat steady, but way too slow. This quiet reminded Isaac of the Nogitsune a bit, scared him shitless, so he did, what they never did at moments like this. He talked. Well, vocalized.  
“Hm?” he said.  
Stiles didn’t answer, his cheek was resting against the passenger side window, his eyes closed and lip still sluggishly bleeding. Isaac reached a hand over the console, softly grasped Stiles’ fingers in his own. Stiles didn’t take his hand back. Instead, he opened his eyes, way too shiny still, shinier than before, and darted out his tongue to lick at the blood. He didn’t say anything, but might have squeezed Isaac’s fingers a bit. Isaac wasn’t sure, so he stepped on the gas. 

He was ready to carry him, but Stiles walked on his own. He got out of the car, and across the lot and into the elevator, all on his two, autonomous, wobbly feet. Isaac wanted to keep holding his hand, but settled for kind of steering him by the scruff of his neck. The ride up seemed to take forever. Isaac could see Stiles sinking deeper with each floor they went up, could feel himself becoming more and more keyed. By the time they stopped and he pushed aside the heavy, sliding door, they must have made quite a pair.  
One tweaked out Beta.  
One scraped up, subdropping human. 

Derek, who had clearly smelled at least some of this from afar had not come to meet them. He was sitting on the couch, an open book resting next to him, eyebrows raised. When Isaac looked at him, they inched up further.  
“Ugh,” Isaac said, but he already felt better. Even the winter kaleidoscope of Derek’s irises held power. No red necessary. And Isaac - after having fought Stiles for the meagre bits of power and control they held between them, after having torn them from Stiles’ and celebrated his victory, after having licked his chops – just gave it all up. He felt nothing but relief and gratitude at being able to give it all back to whom it rightfully belonged.  
“Your boyfriend is a psycho,” he said. Derek was against the word, against any kind metaphoric uses of mental health vocabulary, but Isaac was suddenly very tired, and he wasn’t a better man, wasn’t a better man, he had spent his childhood in a freezer, and wanting to be better was kind of a new experience for him.  
He hadn’t noticed that he had dropped his gaze and grabbed Stiles hand, but then Derek was standing in front of them and he was barefoot. He had such nice toes. Derek rubbed a broad palm over his head, combed fingers through his hair, stroked down to his neck, and squeezed. Isaac swayed closer; fingers still clasped tight around Stiles’. He rubbed his face into the hollow of Derek’s throat and Derek didn’t rush him. He let him settle, match his breath. They stood until their hearts beat in synch and Isaac was calm. It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but always felt monumental to Isaac. That he was allowed. That he could take his time.  
“Come on,” Derek said, and turned towards the bathroom.  
Stiles was wearing a vacant expression, but his hand in Isaac’s wasn’t limp. It wasn’t just Isaac holding Stiles’ hand. Stiles held it back. The tap was running hot and Derek had the medical kit out, so Isaac left Stiles standing in front of Derek and maneuvered past them to his usual spot on the closed toilet lid. There were a couple of bottles of water near the wall. These had definitely not been there when he left for the evening. Which means Derek must have put them here, must have known Isaac and Stiles were going to get into it before either one of them had. He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. Leaned his head against the wall and watched Stiles raise his hands above his head without Derek having to say anything. Watched Stiles step out of his jeans as they puddled around his ankles. He was still keeping it together. That was always the most impressive to Isaac, kind of floored him, to be honest, not that he would have ever told Stiles that. But, when Derek finally put his hands on Stiles’ skin, it was like his strings were cut. All of the fight and the anger - and whenever they did this, Isaac kept coming back to the thought that that is what Stiles was held up by, an exoskeleton of fight and anger – drained out of him, and he drooped into Derek. With the fight gone, and the anger gone, all he had was pain. Isaac knew that too. Derek told him once. Not Stiles. Because Stiles though that Isaac would stop if he knew. And Isaac let him think that, sometimes, on better days, he believed it himself. Derek tossed his own shirt aside. Skin on skin on skin on skin. Skin was good. Isaac briefly contemplated walking over, pressing his forehead against the top loop of the triskele, but he was too tired right now and Derek was whispering something to Stiles, running his hands all over. Isaac could have chosen to strain his ears, to hear the words, but he’d heard this all before and this … wasn’t his. He got his already. He was set. He was fine. So, he finished his water and closed his eyes.  
“Come on,” he heard Derek say, a little louder now, but still very soft: “you know we have to do this.  
Isaac couldn’t help but open his eyes, even though it made him feel greedy. Impolite. He had already gotten his, why was it not enough? Why did he always have to listen in on this, longing, coveting, resenting. Derek was helping Stiles up on the washer, and a splinter of noise - something small, a nickel of a moan, really - escaped Stiles’ lips. It floated above their heads, slow and uneven, like an injured butterfly, and Isaac was … Isaac was … not reaching for it? After Derek, and the water, and the moment to himself he was feeling fine. He was no longer tired, or tweaked, or confused. He had felt the moan, he wanted the moan, his dick twitched at the moan, like always, but he didn’t grab for it and the frustration didn’t follow. And without the frustration the shame didn’t either. He had always felt that these moans were something that he, Isaac, created. He put them in Stiles, but Stiles only ever gave them to Derek. Which was unfair. But now ..  
Isaac watched Derek inspecting the already visible and yet to appear marks all over Stiles. A gentle fingertip near the cut lip, a brief touch on the chest, a slow tap-tap-tap over each hurt finger. When the washcloth touched Stiles’ scraped up knee, he made another noise. Isaac watched this one float away too, didn’t net it, didn’t hide it away somewhere in his chest. Derek threw the washcloth in the sink and reached for the antiseptic.  
“Stiles,” he said, tone forcing eye contact. Stiles opened his eyes.  
“Was it enough?” Stiles’ eyes flicked to Isaac, then back to Derek, back to Isaac. When Stiles nodded, the caked up cut on his lip opened back again. This time he sobbed. It rose towards the bathroom ceiling like champagne bubbles and Isaac felt … Isaac felt … that he had perhaps been wrong about this all along. Stiles didn’t take the pain Isaac put in him and hatch it into noises for Derek. Isaac and Stiles made the pain, but it didn’t become noises before Derek took over all control, before he lifted the cage that Stiles kept … everything in. Fear, anger, pain, noises. And after he took the cage, first from Isaac, then from Stiles, he also took the pain. He let them see it too, not just the black lines snaking up his veins, no, he took all of the pain at once, and felt all of it at once, head thrown back, tendons raised, mouth slightly open. It was not just Isaac and Stiles who danced around it, it was all three of them playing their twisted game of pass the pain.  
“Your boyfriend is a psycho,” Stiles slurred, smiling at both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, as said this is for Kink Bingo and the lovely peeps over at Sterek & Co. <3 you weirdos.  
> Title from a Marilyn Manson lyric.


End file.
